


Lessons in Intimacy

by KinkyGrrlDiane (AnneTaylor)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/KinkyGrrlDiane
Summary: It starts out as a fairly normal evening. The boys are in a bar. Jaskier is singing and Geralt is drinking. Then a man shows up with a commission, offering so much money for the death of a werewolf that Jaskier's suspicions are aroused. But the money's too good to pass up, so they set off into the swamp. But when Geralt catches up to his quarry, he realizes that there are more than one of them. And then Jaskier is taken by a group of bandits. But it isn't until Geralt reveals to the bandits that there was a spy in their midst that things really get ugly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 421





	Lessons in Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Witcher fic. I had only gotten as far as episode five when I started it, but it could certainly happen after episode six. Geralt and Jaskier are not lovers at this point, but Jaskier pretty obviously wishes it were otherwise. I had originally intended a romp and a good monster hunt, but when the monster actually appeared, I realized I had got him all wrong. These are my favorite kinds of fiction as a writer; the kind where the characters take on a life of their own and take me in directions I never expected.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If there's enough interest a sequel is possible.

The Rousty Miner Inn in Heleborn was an establishment typical of its sort. Small town, everybody knows everybody. Strangers greeted with a hostile stare and the cold shoulder, unless they offered to buy drinks, which Jaskier could not afford to do. And besides, it was a matter of principle. Patrons bought drinks for the bard, not the other way round. Still, it was a fairly low key event…at least until Geralt stepped through the door.

“Well, what have we here? Long white hair, chin you could crack a nut with, fancy sword and armor, wolf pendant…gentlemen…have a look. I think we have a figure of legend in our midst. It’s the White Wolf himself.” The old man at the bar cackled, and a number of the other patrons joined in, some in overt malice, others in drunken humor.

“And his faithful chronicler,” Jaskier announced himself.

“He’s not mine,” muttered Geralt. He laid a coin down on the bar and pointed at a keg. The barkeep took the coin, tasted it, and then pulled down a mug. After wiping it with his apron, he filled it from the indicated keg.

Ugh, Jaskier thought. The apron had obviously been around. He wondered if the wipe had been a gesture of contempt on the barkeep’s part, sort of a “I may have to serve you beer but I don’t have to like you”. Few people were bold enough to spit in a witcher’s face, but they would spit in his beer. When he wasn’t looking.

“A song!” someone demanded. “Play a tune, bard. Sing!”

“Of course, gentlemen. Always willing to oblige,” Jaskier told them

“Yah. That’s what I heard,” one man muttered darkly. “Oblige any of our wives and you’ll no longer be worrying that the arrival of manhood will steal that pretty voice of yours.”

There was another chorus of laughter, not all of it good natured.

Jaskier began to play a lively tune about roses and thorns and the virtues of fidelity. As a warm-up, it was a good choice, he decided later. By the time he was seven songs into the evening, he had received a handful of coins and several drinks. That was better than he usually saw. He sang until his voice began to break, then slung his lute over his back and went to spend a few of his coins at the bar.

Geralt did not acknowledge him when he joined the witcher at the bar. Jaskier tried not to be hurt. It least Geralt didn’t try to chase him off quite as frequently. That was progress, right? Jaskier had tried everything he could think of to gain the witcher’s regard. He’d written songs about him, made him famous. Done his small part to turn the hatred of the common folk for witchers into something less hurtful.

He’d tried going away for a while. A year to the day. Then he’d showed up at the inn where the witcher was staying after having killed a pair of echthars which had burrowed beneath the town and were using the townsfolk to host their spawn. A nasty business, he’d heard. Geralt had almost ended up monster spawn himself, though it was a story which had taken months to draw out of him, and as it involved Geralt swallowing powdered silver and vomiting up the dead spawn, he could hardly be blamed for not wanting to relive the experience.

He had hoped Geralt would have missed him. Feared that Geralt would drive him away again in anger. Neither happened. It was as if he had never left. He supposed that when you were as old as Geralt, change happened only gradually, if at all. When you have done everything and seen everything, little comes along which was significant enough to nudge you onto a new course.

The door banged open. There was an urgency to it, a purpose that Jaskier recognized. He saw the corner of Geralt's mouth turn up, in wry acknowledgement of what was coming.

Someone was looking for The Witcher. To hire him, most likely, but perhaps to lynch him. The world was full of fools.

Geralt didn't turn around, remaining seemingly at ease, with arms on the bar and his fingers wrapped around a half empty mug. But Jaskier could see the readiness, the tension betrayed only by Geralt’s stillness. Listening for a clue as to what the next few moments would offer.

“Witcher!”

Jaskier turned around. Two men stood in the doorway, waiting. With a rather self-important air and what Jaskier recognized as an overdeveloped sense of drama, the taller of the two strode through the bar.

He was lean, a man in his fighting prime. There was a slash that ran down from scalp to throat, barely clipping the back of the man's eye. Apparently that small wound had been enough to steal the eye, which was milky and half lidded. A sword hung from an ornate sheath buckled around the man's hips. There was a dagger in each boot.

Wonder if he can use those, Jaskier mused. Not everyone with a sword could use it; some loaded themselves down with sharp pointy objects in an attempt to look intimidating and keep potential challenges away. He didn't think this man was one of them. Too well-muscled, and he moved like a fighter.

Geralt waited until the man was almost behind him before doing a slow, deliberate turn, bringing the two men face to face.

Points to Geralt, Jaskier thought. Definitely style points. Plus...well...it was Geralt and there was no one like him.

Geralt said nothing, only gazed at the man with his arresting, amber eyes.

The man frowned. “I have a commission for you. There's a monster, a cursed wolf that can transform to something far worse, with claws and teeth that can rip a man’s throat out in a trice, raging for men's blood. It killed a dozen of my men in Leehaven. We tracked it along the border of the swamp and then into the swamp. It's in there now.”

“I don't hunt cursed man,” said Geralt. “They have enough trouble.”

“Curse was a turn of phrase. I may as well have said fucking wolf. This thing was never a man. Althought, it is able to disguise itself as one.”

“You're talking about a werewolf,” said Geralt. “Some are men who were cursed, by a power or a bite. Others were spawned by chaos, as most monsters are. Or by other wolves.”

Jaskier had heard of werewolves before. An old man who lived in the keep Jaskier had grown up in used to tell stories about them. A strange mixture of tales; in some, the wolves were the heroes, in others the villains.

“He killed ten of my men,” the swordsman insisted. “I want the thing dead. I'm prepared to pay well. This lot ought to be willing to pay as well...” He turned to the other inhabitants in the bar. “When it gets tired of the swamp it'll be out and looking for its next meal. The beast feasts on human flesh, especially the flesh of children.”

I don’t think that’s right. Jaskier frowned.

The eyes of the others widened in terror “Here, I'll add a gold to the pot,” a young well-dressed man said. “I've children who snuck off into the swamp a time or two, as boys will do. You, Timeny, your boys are in there all the time. If this thing comes among us looking like a man how would we know?”

“Aye,” said another man. “That's worth something to me.” “And me.” “For the sake of the children."

Soon there was a pile of money on the table that made Jaskier’s eyes bug out.

The swordsman added a large bag to the pile. “5000 orens in there, and five thousand more if you bring me the head of the beast.”

Ten thousand orens? That much money…Jaskier felt dizzy. It was a fortune.

“Want to preserve it and hang it on your wall?” Geralt guessed.

“Maybe. Or maybe I'll let the widows at it with their kitchen knives. So, will you take the commission?”

“I'll take it. As long as it's not just a man with a curse, hiding away in the swamp and doing no harm.”

“You calling me a liar?” The man demanded.

“Which was it, ten men or a dozen?” asked Jaspier. When two alpha dogs begin barking at each other it was sensible to climb a tree but being sensible wasn't his strong suit. “First you said a dozen, then ten.”

The man spat on the ground. “Not talking to you, you little shite.” He turned back to Geralt. “Now how do you plan on telling the difference between a bad werewolf and a good one?”

“The usual way.” Geralt gave a mysterious smile and took a sip of his drink.

“The money stays here till the Beast is dead. You don't get paid for deciding whether it's the right kind of monster. No kill, no pay.”

Geralt shrugged. “Those are my terms, take them or fuck off.”

The man's eyes turned stony cold, and Jaskier shivered. He never wanted to see that look directed at him.

“We have a deal then. One more thing.” He turned to the man behind him, who had been completely silent through this exchange. “When they are in human form, those things can't be identified. At least not easily.”

The other man stepped forward and held a bag out to Geralt. It was of thick leather, and contained about a melon’s-weight of something.

Geralt took it and looked inside. “Dust," he remarked.

“Toss it out on anyone who looks suspicious and their true nature will be uncovered. The monster will be revealed. Wear gloves... There's silver in it.”

“Your friend doesn't say much,” Geralt remarked.

The silent man stared at him for a moment, then pulled down the high-necked sweater that covered his throat. It had four parallel slashes across it, livid and freshly-made, with a neat row of stitches closing each one.

“Wolf did that?” Geralt asked.

The man nodded.

“Ah,” Geralt grunted. He stood. “Guide me to the place where it headed into the swamp. They move quickly.”

He led the way out of the bar and handed Roach’s reins to a boy, giving him a coin. “Rub her down and see that she's fed and watered and standing in fresh straw.” He gave the boy warning look. “I'm very fond of this horse.” He caught the boy’s eye. “When I get back, either there will be another coin for you or I'll take you out into the swamp tie you to a tree and leave you there.”

The boy's eyes went wide with alarm. “I'll take good care of her, sir,” he promised.

“Terrorizing children?” Jaskier muttered as they headed out of town. “Wouldn't make a very flattering song.”

“A little added incentive never goes amiss,” Geralt returned.

* * *

It was a long, uneasy trek to the swamp. Jaskier’s imagination ran astray; every crack of a branch, every animal sound made him flinch inside. He'd heard of the power that werewolves possessed. They were cunning brutes most times but when the moon waxed full they became killing machines. Oh, please, let us conclude this commission quickly, he prayed. The moon was waxing, several days yet from being full, but he could easily imagine many scenarios that eventually had Geralt hunting werewolves beneath the full moon.

A terrifying prospect. Gods, what a song it would make. He began experimentally humming the first few chords.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“Sorry.” With an effort, he submerged the song back into the recesses of his mind and continued to compose.

“This is where the Beast entered the swamp.” The swordsman, who had thus far failed to offer his name or the name of his silent companion, pointed off in the near darkness.

“Humph.” Without another word, Geralt struck across the muck surrounded hummocks, leaving Jaskier to follow as best he could. Illuminated by the occasional flash of moonlight, the trees which overhung the grassy hummocks looked like enormous, bent-over wraiths with long, dangling fingers.

Definitely, these need to go in my song, Jaskier decided. He shivered as he passed beneath them. The wind moaned through the swamp, making the tree fingers swing in seeming anticipation of their arrival. Clouds passed over the face of the moon, plunging them into total darkness while Jaskier’s night-blind eyes struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

Once his foot sank into a soft spot, and he would have toppled into the black water had Geralt not grabbed him and hauled him back on solid ground.

For his part, Geralt never faltered. He paused occasionally to examine the ground. Once he said quietly as if to himself, “Why did he mention only one of them?”

“There are two werewolves?” Jaskier squeaked, his heart hammered painfully in his breast. That means they can come at us from two directions. Maybe they work together. Setting up an ambush. Are werewolves that smart? He tried to remember. In some stories they were. As smart as people. And in others they were little more than savage beasts.

“Possibly only one is a werewolf. The other either knows the swamp quite well or he's obviously good at negotiating dangerous ground. The wolf is a great deal more careless,” Geralt muttered.

“Maybe following in their...”

“Hst!” Geralt hissed, and Jaskier fell silent.

They stood, frozen in the darkness. Geralt waited until the moon broke free of the clouds, clearly illuminating him, and making it clear to Jaskier that he was to remain absolutely silent, on pain of...well...Jaskier wasn't sure what terrible fate an inadvertent noise would bring upon him, but he had no desire to find out.

Forward progress resumed. After a time, Jaskier could see the glow up ahead and hear the faint noises that the witcher's keen senses had detected far earlier. There seem to be some kind of camp ahead.

Jaskier's legs almost gave way beneath him. An entire band of werewolves? It was the stuff of nightmares. Possibly ballads as well, but he'd have to find a way to stay alive long enough to compose it.

Geralt halted and pointed up into a tree. Jaskier's gaze followed the line of his finger but he didn't see anything in the tangled branches. He shook his head and shrugged.

Impatiently, Geralt grabbed him and shoved him ungently against the tree trunk and pointed again.

He wants me to climb. Brilliant. I'll just get out from underfoot, then. As nimbly as he could manage on aching feet, with fingers numbed by the cold, Jaskier climbed.

He never heard that werewolves could climb trees. Then again, he'd never heard they couldn't.

Geralt disappeared into the darkness.

Really, this was the best of all options. Geralt would be free to formulate the best plan of attack, free of consideration for his chronicler’s safety, and Jaskier could spend time composing the magnificent song that would add yet another chapter to Geralt’s already magnificent saga.

Jaskier hummed the melody line inside his head and tried to figure out what verse would best precede “and then he slew them, every one.”

At least, he thought he was humming it inside his head.

“You, there, in the tree. Making that funny noise. Come down or we'll put a couple of bolts through you.”

Damn. Geralt is going to grunt at me in that really angry voice. “Sure...of course. Just give me a moment.” He tried to make his voice as inoffensive is possible. The two men watching him had their crossbows leveled at his midsection.

Well at least they're not pointed at my balls, he thought. That was the usual target of choice when men pointed crossbows at him. When he had reached the ground, one of the men grabbed his arm and shoved him in the direction of their camp. “Keep walking. Don't stop until we tell you to stop.”

Taking no chances. This does not bode well at all.

* * *

The camp had been built up on a large hill that rose up above its swampy surroundings. About three dozen man, from what Jaskier could see. Assuming there were more out of sight, and there probably were. Their armor was varied and piecemeal. Bandits. Hiding out in a swamp. Oh, this was not good. They wouldn’t want anyone to know about them.

When he first stepped out from the trees there were shouts and hastily seized weapons, but when it became evident that Jaskier was already a prisoner, most of the men lost interest and went back to sleeping or cleaning their weapons or eating.

A large man stepped forward. He was a tall, thick bear of a man, with grizzled locks and a matted beard that looked as if it hadn't been washed in...well...never. 

The man’s heavy leather straps creaked as he drew a dagger. He pressed it to Jaskier's throat, while the two guards who had captured him held him immobile.

“How many of you are there?” the man demanded. “And don't even think to lie to me. People who lie to me get their throats slit.”

“I... Just the two of us,” Jaskier blurted. “Geralt fell into the swamp and now I'm lost. I think he's drowned. I just wanted to find my way back to the inn and maybe have a bit of a nap,” he finished faintly.

“What were two men doing in a swamp at night?” the man with the knife asked, pressing the tip of the blade into Jaskier’s flesh.

Jaskier winced at the bite, and felt a hot trickle of blood run down his throat, seeping into his shirt. “We were hunting a werewolf.”

“A what?”

“Geralt, did he say?” Another man approached. “As in…Geralt of Rivia? Carrod, he's talking about the White Wolf. The Witcher.”

“Hunting a werewolf, did you say?” Carrod’s eyes narrowed. “And you expect me to believe that he just fell into a swamp and drowned? Things like that don't happen to men with the witcher's reputation. I think you're lying to me about that, and if you're lying to me about that you could be lying about anything.”

Jaskier gulped as the man pulled his dagger back and prepared to strike.

“I hate to be the one besmirching my own reputation,” Geralt's silver crowned head emerged from an inky patch of shadow, “but contrary to all the songs sung in the pubs, yes, the White Wolf does occasionally put his foot wrong.”

The man addressed as Carrod paused. As, once again, a general scramble for weapons progressed, Carrod examined Geralt keenly.

One leg was sheathed in mud just up past the knee.

“Doesn't look like you suffered anything close to drowning.”

Geralt was ringed, though not too closely, by a group of half a dozen men. Others drifted in, curiosity evident in their expressions.

“The bard is easily alarmed,” Geralt deadpanned. He shrugged. “I found it convenient to leave him with his misconceptions while I scouted ahead.”

“Spied, you mean,” one of the men said loudly.

“Scouted,” Geralt repeated. “I was following the tracks of a wolf.”

“Wolves don't frequent swamps,” Carrod remarked.

“This one evidently does.”

“I've seen the tracks," one of the men admitted. "Big ‘un. Stays away from camp.”

Carrod gave him an annoyed look. “Witchers don't hunt wolves,” he said. He looked at Jaskier. “You said something about a werewolf.”

“Yes, we...”

“The bard has a way of distorting reality for his own purposes. You certainly never hear songs sung about witchers hunting wolves. What kind of story would that make? But monsters don’t always present themselves and wolf pelts fetch a goodly price.”

“Now that...” Carrod scowled at him “Has the ring of untruth to it. I told you what happens to men who lie to me...”

“Technically, you only told me,” Jaskier objected. He winced as one of the men holding him dug a thumb into the tender flesh of Jaskier's arm.

Almost the entire camp was assembled by this point, arranged in a loose semi-circle around the witcher. “So, which is it? Wolf or werewolf?” Carrod demanded.

“I guess we'll have to do this the hard way,” Geralt said. Weapons were raised, and several men stepped back as he reached into the bag hanging at his waist.

“What t’ell’s that?” someone asked as Geralt pulled out a handful of the powder and flung it out over the assembled men.

Most of them just looked confused.

Carrod’s eyes narrowed.

“Werewolf detection powder,” Jaskier informed him, hoping it was true.

The man snorted in disbelief.

Geralt frowned, seeing that nothing had happened as a result of his action. He took another, larger handful of powder and flung it out in a greater arc. This time it produced results. One of the men, who had been hanging back on the periphery of the group, doubled over, vomiting.

“Mage,” said Geralt with satisfaction. “One of yours?” he inquired, looking at the leader of the camp.

“He's no mage,” Carrod scoffed, though his voice was uncertain.

Another man who had been standing next to the mage made a run for it. Well, run was perhaps not quite the word. Staggered was closer to the truth. He made it as far as the edge of the swamp before collapsing to the ground by stages. First, he crouched over, then fell to all fours, eventually crawling an additional few feet before settling into what appeared to be a deep sleep, one arm trailing off into the muddy water.

“Witcher? What does this mean?” Carrod demanded.

Geralt strode over to the vomiting man. “Mage. Are you one of the Brotherhood?” He broke off as the man's features dissolved. Where once there had crouched a nondescript man of medium height, with brown hair and regular features, now there was a tall, sharp featured man with dark hair and elegantly pointed ears.

“He's an elf!” Someone gasped.

“Obviously,” Geralt muttered. He abandoned the mage and strode down the gentle slope to the other man, who was snoring audibly.

“Told you,” crowed Jaskier, and after a mildly irritated look Carrod gestured to his men.

“Let him go.”

Jaskier made a show of brushing his sleeves, checking to make certain his lute was undamaged, then strolled down to join Geralt and Carrod at the swamp’s edge.

“He's not vomiting. Does that mean he's not a mage?” Carrod was asking.

Geralt eased up the man's sleeves. He was extremely hairy, Jaskier noticed. Ridiculously so, now that he got a closer look at the man. His hair was long and tangled, his beard unkempt. A thick mat of chest hair peeked out from the man's loose linen shirt. Geralt checked the man's hands, tracing the lines on his palm. “Wolf,” he said. “Hereditary. Not bitten.”

“Well, well...” Carrod smiled, not at all a nice smile. Jaskier was glad it wasn't directed at him. “Spies. I suppose we owe you, Witcher.” His tone was begrudging.

“I suppose you do,” remarked Geralt. “I'll be taking this one back to the town with me. He's worth ten thousand ducats. I won't get my money if they can't identify the culprit. They want him alive.”

That wasn’t exactly true; they had only wanted its head, Jaskier thought, but he knew better than to open his mouth at this point. Regardless of what Geralt said, Jaskier had learned a thing or two about discretion from traveling with the witcher.

“I’m afraid that isn’t going to be an option,” Carrod said. He straightened and stepped back. “Company…present arms!” he ordered loudly.

A dozen crossbows snapped up and oriented themselves on Geralt and Jaskier. Geralt’s expression darkened. “You aren’t a group of bandits hanging out in a swamp. You’re an army. Whose?”

If he was alone, he’d probably take them all on, crossbows or no. Maybe. I’m not sure if that makes me a weight around his neck or a life-saver, Jaskier mused.

There was a choked cry from the knot of men surrounding the mage. At the sound of it, the hairy man stirred from his sound sleep. His hand began to twitch. One man kicked the mage, and then another.

“Let’s cut his hands off, then he won’t be able to cast spells,” one suggested.

“Imbriel,” a low growl rumbled from the lips of the werewolf. His voice sounded slurred. “If you hurt him, I will kill you.”

“Bind him,” said Carrod. Then, to Geralt “Give me that!” he commanded, pointing to the remaining bag of powder.

Deliberately, Geralt turned and flung the bag far out into the swamp. It hit the water with a loud splash and sank into the blackness. His head whipped back around, watching the surrounding soldiers like a wolf at bay, daring them to fire their crossbows at him.

Why does this always happen? Jaskier wondered despairingly. We start out hunting them and end up defending them. Well, all right, mostly we end up killing them, assuming they are monsters. But still…far too often for my tastes.

“Put them all in chains,” hissed Carrod. “We’ll take them back to the keep.”

* * *

The keep turned out to be a single-story stone and wood building that sprawled across a meadow some ten miles from the northern border of the swamp. It was surrounded by a crenulated wall some thirty feet in height, which made it taller than the building which it protected. Soldiers patrolled the wall on all four sides. Next to the wall, the keep looked like an afterthought.

Jaskier noticed that the stonework on the wall was much more weathered than the keep. It must have been built on the site of an older, razed keep. It had taken them two hours to arrive at their destination. The mage was unconscious by this point, draped over the back of someone’s horse. The werewolf was groggy and had to be carried on a cart. He would periodically start to recover and be drugged back into a stupor with a handful of paste from the bag that Carrod had forced Geralt to retrieve. “I can send you for it or I can send the bard,” he’d told Geralt.

Geralt and Jaskier staggered, arms chained behind their backs, in the wake of the werewolf’s cart. Every now and then the man’s eyes opened, cloudy with pain. He coughed and feebly tried to brush the powder from his skin. Rain had been falling, a constant, frigid drizzle that aided his efforts. The bag of paste was almost empty, and it was with noticeable relief that Carrod passed through the doorway into the inner courtyard of the keep.

“Take the three of them downstairs,” he ordered. “Bring the elf into the dining hall. Put the dimertium collar on him and stretch him out on a table. We’ll find out who sent him and where he acquired the animal.”

Even in his somnolent state, it took three men to drag the werewolf down the stairs.

* * *

Gods, I hate dungeons, Jaskier thought gloomily. Since attaching himself to Geralt’s coat-tails he had seen the inside of far too many of them. What was it about the witcher that made everyone want to torture him? Most likely that invisible wall that Geralt maintained, the sense of the untouchable. It screamed break me wide open and see what escapes. There were always men, and woman, with issues, who couldn’t resist such a challenge.

This dungeon was even more filthy and wretched than most. It was obviously part of the original architecture. The mortar between the bricks had turned black and begun to crumble. Debris rounded the corners of the room and piled in uneven lumps on the floor. The junctures where floor met wall had holes in them and occasionally a rodent head would be seen, nose twitching and greedy little eyes like tiny black marbles, watching them in open speculation.

All three of them were chained to the wall. The werewolf leaned against the filthy stonework between Jaskier and Geralt, groggily shaking his head as if he thought that would clear his thoughts. _Once the army finishes torturing the mage, they’ll deal with the rest of us. We’ll probably all be tortured_ , Jaskier thought sourly. One thing he knew about torturers, they didn’t often like to stop with just one. “What’s your name?” he asked the werewolf.

For an answer, the alleged werewolf just glared at him. “Your fault,” he rasped.

“Did you kill somewhere between ten and a dozen men three days ago, in the town of Leehaven?” Geralt asked.

The man’s head rolled around to face Geralt. “Not in Leehaven. Brehemar. Bastards had it coming,” he said in a low voice. “They sacked Leehaven. As a warning. Left corpses in the streets and stole some women. One of them was Imbri’s cousin.”

“Hmmh.” Geralt frowned. “In that case I apologize.”

“Can you get us out of this?”

Geralt grunted.

It didn’t sound like a hopeful sort of grunt. Rather more of the fatalistic variety. Jaskier cursed himself. For some time he’d been meaning to try and purchase a set of lockpicks, and some instruction on how to use them. He’d had the perfect opportunity, less than a month ago when he’d been pickpocketed by a thief who turned out to be a girl with an extremely attractive skillset. Geralt had collared her, and she had begged him not to report her to the authorities. At the time, it had occurred to Jaskier that it would be marvelously useful to learn some of her less larcenous skills, but he’d failed to obtain more than a cursory lesson before she and Geralt had gone into their own private set of negotiations behind closed doors. In the morning she had left, with an extremely self-satisfied smile on her face. Jaskier wondered which one had kept the contents of his purse. He had a pick sewn into the lining of his doublet, but had yet to master the art of using it.

A coughing cry echoing down the dark hallway outside their prison. It could be heard only faintly; the wooden door was quite thick.

The werewolf twisted, testing his ropy muscles against the chains that bound him. He moaned, and his head fell groggily forward as he leaned into the chains. “Imbri?”

He should be able to break those, Javier realized. He thought back over all the ballads and stories that he had heard about werewolves. Very strong, but now that he thought about it, they were always described as having claws and fangs. Insane killing machines. This one didn’t seem to fit the bill. “Are you really a werewolf?” he inquired.

The man slashed at him, but his arm was brought up short by the chain. “Fucking bastards.”

“He needs to change,” said Geralt. “There’s something in the powder that’s inhibiting that, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

The room echoed with another muffled scream.

“Here…” Jaskier pulled a soggy handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this.” He held it out. “Try to wipe the powder from your skin.”

The man looked at him for a moment, then accepted that handkerchief. He began to lave his face with it. “Rusk,” he rumbled grudgingly. “That’s my name.”

“Rusk.” In all the tales he’d heard, a werewolf’s strongest personality trait was his temper. Quick to kindle, but quick to regret. They often ended up crying like babies after slaughtering entire towns. “Rusk, what do you need in order to change? Does it have anything to do with emotion?”

Rusk gave him a dazed look. The powder had kept him pacified, Jaskier realized.

“You may be onto something,” Geralt admitted. There was something almost like respect in the witcher’s tone. “I hadn’t put those together before.”

Strong emotion. Fear. Rage. “Rusk, they’re torturing your friend.”

A sound almost like a sob issued from the man’s lips. “Fuck you.”

“They’ll have him stretched out on a table. Probably naked. He’s viciously ill from the inhibitor collar. Vomiting. They have knives. Slitting him open. They’ll probably start with his balls, or maybe his ears. Fingernails. They’ll burn him. Across his chest. On the bottoms of his feet.”

The man crouched, shoulders hunched. He looked…taller. A low growl issued from his chest. His voice seemed to have descended a register or two.

"Yes!" said Jaskier. "That's it. Get angry!"

The man raised his head in an abrupt motion that focused his gaze on the bard. His lips pulled back from teeth that were quite obviously much sharper and longer than they had been previously. His eyes, which had been a muddy brown, had become a startling shade of red edged with black.

"Yes! It was our fault." Jaskier encouraged him, prudently retreating to the far limits of his chains. Just in case. "Somebody's fault, anyway. Think about how angry that makes you. I *could* have picked the locks and gotten us out, but I didn't,” he lied. “It’s all up to you. Your friend is being tortured and you aren't there to stop it. You *should* be angry about that. Though, perhaps, more at them than at me," he added as an afterthought.

Another agonized scream rang out, and the sound of hoarse cursing. Then, a single word. “Rusk!”

The man's form was changing. Lengthening snout, coarse hair sprouting from every visible pore, fingers thickening, claws lengthening. The emerging man-beast scrabbled to get its boots off as its feet transformed. Bones rearranged themselves with audible popping noises, the creature grunting in pain as the manacles cut into wrists now too large to be contained. It snarled and grasped one of its chains. With seemingly no effort, it tore the chain out of the wall. The second followed. It snapped both lengths of chain off just below the tightly restricting cuffs. The beast now stood nearly six feet tall, though less so as it hunched, snarling, its blood tinted gaze fixated on the Bard.

"Your friend needs you," Jaskier remarked evenly, averting his eyes from the monster's gaze. "You can always come back and rip my guts out later."

The monster grunted, curled its lip and leaped across the room. Digging its claws into the juncture at the edge of the door, it gave a mighty heave and ripped the door free in an explosion of shattered wood. Then it was gone.

In a very short amount of time, there was more screaming. Quite a lot of it, and obviously from several throats at once. Jaskier thought it sounded a little like yodeling, though not quite as musical. Then, at last, silence settled over the still air of the room.

Some time after the screaming had died down, Geralt remarked "That may not have been the best strategy."

"You'd think so," the Bard remarked, "but the thing about werewolves is their tempers are as quick to cool as they are to kindle. It'll be fine. Trust me..."

A raging three hundred pounds of dark-furred rage poured in through the doorway. In a trice, Jaskier was snatched up and yanked to the limits of his chains.

He gave a cough of pain and yelped "I did it for your own good!"

The werewolf opened his mouth and snapped his jaws shut over Jaskier’s head, with just enough force to draw blood. The bard began to whimper as a trickle of blood ran down behind his ear.

"You should probably offer to pick the locks of his manacles," Geralt suggested. "That might be something on the way to a peace offering."

"Yes," said Jaskier, his voice high with barely suppressed panic, "I can do that. Just let me get to my tools."

The werewolf considered this.

"Though I can wholeheartedly sympathize with the impulse to simply want to kill him, he does have his uses.” Geralt told the werewolf. “There’s something about him that is so universally annoying that even monsters incapable of human understanding end up trying to kill him. He makes an effective diversion."

The werewolf spat Jaskier's head out of his mouth and a serious of coughing barks emerged from his jaws, evidently the werewolf equivalent of laugher, judging from the sidelong look that he gave to Geralt, and the lolling tongue which punctuated the look.

"I truly can," Geralt sighed.

A man limped in through the empty doorway. From the looks, he had hastily pulled on an assortment of clothes from whatever corpses were convenient. Everything was ripped and stained with fresh blood. His high, delicate cheekbones bled from numerous score marks and the top of one ear had been severed. He held one hand against his body. "Don't eat him, Rusk. He'll disagree with you, you know he will. On so many levels." He reached out his good hand to steady himself against the stone.

The wolf-man flowed across the floor to position himself against the elf, and Imbriel transferred his weight to the werewolf’s broad shoulders. His fingers clutched the coarse, thick fur.

“Most of them are dead,” Imbriel said in a low voice. “But the keep will soon fill up again. I heard horses galloping away. We should leave this place.”

The werewolf made an inquiring sound, a kind of chirrup, ending on a rising note.

“Perhaps.” The mage stared at Geralt. “What say you, witcher? Do you deserve a rescue?”

Geralt thought about that for a moment. “Self-preservation bids me to silence,” he remarked. “For what it’s worth, were our situations reversed, I’d release you.”

The mage’s lips twitched. “Fair enough,” he said. “Rusk, free them, will you?”

The wolf snapped their chains off, throwing Jaskier another dark look, as if he was considering what Jaskier might taste like. Once detached from the wall, they all made their way upstairs. The mingled stink of blood and intestines was thick in the air. Geralt and Javier found their possessions in a tangle of equipment in a corner of the room. Imbriel selected several things and shoved them into a large pack.

They got clear of the keep just in time. Jaskier could hear the sounds of shouts behind them, and the alarmed squeal of horses faced with a great deal of blood-scent. The mage struck out into the swamp, carefully picking his way through the treacherous footing. By the time dawn had turned the dark shadows to colorless grey, the mage was spent. He slid to the ground and lay where he had fallen while Jaskier and Geralt set up camp. The wolf-man covered him with a fur blanket and prowled restlessly about. A tent was pitched and a fire kindled, where it sat crackling in the center of the clearing. Rusk had managed to find an alligator to take out his aggressions on. Geralt skinned it and Jaskier put the flesh on skewers, setting up a makeshift spit that periodically burned through and had to be replaced.

After Rusk had fetched water and washed blood and dust from the mage’s body, Imbriel fell asleep inside the tent, sheltered from the rain, cradled on a pile of sleeping furs and covered with Geralt’s heavy wolfskin pelt. Hours passed, with Rusk pacing nervously about the camp, occasionally disappearing into the swamp. Finally, the meat was cooked and water boiled for drinking. Rusk went to gently rouse Imbriel.

The meat was delicious, Jaskier thought as they all shared a meal. Rubbed with garlic bulbs from his backpack, it was crackly black on the outside and barely pink on the inside. “This isn’t bad at all,” he proclaimed. “Maybe I should take up cooking as a second profession.” It would probably pay better than barding, he thought glumly. “Hmm?” He prodded the rest of his companions. “Admit it…I can cook.”

"Hmm," Geralt commented.

The werewolf grunted.

"Gods, there are two of them now," Jaskier complained. "Only able to communicate in monosyllables. How do you manage?" he asked the elf.

"Well enough." The man gave him a cool look. "Perhaps if you didn't do all the talking your friend would suddenly find his tongue."

"Tried that. Never works."

Imbiel made his way stiffly back to the tent and settled, cross legged, in the opening. He made a gesture, and even Jaskier could feel the hum of power that sprang up.

“I’ll take first watch,” Geralt offered, and disappeared into the swamp.

The werewolf settled wearily to the ground, shifted about until he had found a comfortable position and lay down. His massive head stretched out to lay across Imbriel’s lap.

Imbriel combed his long fingers through the thick pelt of Rusk's throat, rubbing the inside of his tufted ears until the man was nearly squirming with pleasure.

Jaskier watched the two of them, envy and unhappiness in the hunch of his shoulders. "I do not think I will ever have what you have," he said, giving tongue to something he could barely admit to himself.

"Perhaps if you made an effort to be less...yourself," Imbriel suggested. "It does seem to put people's backs up."

"I cannot be other than what I am," said Jaskier sadly. "Annoying is part of my trademark."

A gleam of sympathy showed in the man's eyes. "We must all be what we are," he said softly, looking down at the sleepy werewolf. "You must be who you are, and find what comfort you can at the hands of those who care about you."

"Hands?" The wolf yawned, his long pink tongue stretching out, illuminated in the glow of the fire. From the angle at which Jaskier sat, it looked like the wolf was catching the sparks with his tongue. "Hands are over-rated. Tongue, now..." The look in his eyes was sly.

A twig snapped and Geralt ghosted out of the darkness. His eyes lingered for a moment on Imbriel and Rusk, and then he settled himself by the fire.

"Oh, well, if you don't want them I shall keep them to myself." Imbriel crossed his arms and leaned back against the tent.

Rusk grunted in displeasure. "I didn't say I didn't want them," he objected. He wiggled around until he was on his back, gazing up at the elf. "I like them. Tongue is better, though."

"You furry little ingrates," said Imbriel. "It's all tongue and nose with you. Snuffling and licking." His hands returned to their task, the leisurely circles, combing through Rusk's thick coat. "Never even heard of a backrub, or scented oils."

"I could demonstrate," Jaskier offered.

Rusk stiffened. His breathing grew more pronounced.

"I've got two dozen scents in my pack," Jaskier continued. "And plenty of oil."

"Bard…" Imbriel began, just as Geralt said "Jaskier. Shut it."

A low growl forced its way out of the Rusk's throat. He rolled to his feet in one smooth move.

"Wolf! He meant nothing by it..." Imbriel’s hand caught Rusk's leg.

"I know what he meant by it," snarled Rusk. "He has a reputation that stretches across five countries. He's a cuckolding, sneaky little..."

"What he meant," Geralt said in a voice dripping with sarcasm "was that he was going to demonstrate on me."

Jaskier, who had snatched up his backpack and was cowering behind it turned to stare at him with disbelief. "Really?"

Geralt shrugged. "It's better than having my sleep disturbed by the sounds of your screams," he commented. He sat up straighter, stretched and began to remove his armor.

"This should be interesting," muttered Rusk, allowing himself to be reluctantly pulled back down.

By the time Geralt had stripped down to the sweat stained linen shirt that stretched tightly across his well-developed pectorals, he had everyone's attention.

"Nice," muttered Rusk.

Imbriel flicked his ear in mock irritation and Rusk's deep laugh filled the clearing.

Geralt took his time with the buttons. Jaskier couldn't be sure, but if it was anyone else baring his skin Jaskier would have said he was putting on a show. Finally, Geralt peeled off his shirt, leaving behind a muscular expanse of pale skin dappled to golden by the flicking firelight.

"Gods." A sharp whine was torn from the Rusk's throat. "He smells like..." He broke off and coughed. "Not my business."

Geralt gave no sign that he had heard Rusk's comment. He spread his fur, which he had retrieved from the tent, out on the ground. “I assume if anyone drops by you can handle it, for now?” he looked over at Rusk.

“It would be my pleasure.” The wolf-man’s tongue lolled out in a savage grin.

Rolling his shoulder in an exaggerated stretch, Geralt laid himself face-down on the fur. He stretched his arms up over his head and waited.

Jaskier had to concentrate on keeping himself from trembling with nervousness and anticipation. It wasn’t the first time he’d laid hands on Geralt’s skin before, but certainly the first time in front of an audience and the first time Geralt had ever volunteered to be touched.

"What, the pants stay on?" Rusk remarked in a peevish voice.

"I believe a back-rub was what was mentioned," Geralt commented dryly. "This is as far as I'm prepared to go with an audience."

Something inside Jaskier clenched at the thought. How far was Geralt prepared to go in private? Was his White Wolf beginning to warm up to him? He selected two oils, cinnamon and lavender. Dribbling them onto his hands, he carefully warmed the oils and then began to spread them over Geralt’s back. At first the pronounced muscles were tense, as they always were. Geralt never seemed to relax. Even when he was resting, or bathing, his eyes were always roving from door to window. Jaskier was certain that Geralt slept with one eye open, most nights. When he slept at all, which was not often.

“Feh,” commented Rusk. “That stinks. Covers up the scent of him. Why do you short nosed people do that?”

Imbriel cuffed him. “Pay attention. Offers of this nature is what you should be using for negotiations. When you want me to participate in one of those perverted little games you dogs like to play.”

“Hmm…” Rusk’s voice grew rich with interest, and he focused more intently on Geralt and Jaskier.

First the areas on either side of the spine. Long, sweeping strokes. He dug his thumbs in and worked the scarred muscles until they began to soften. Geralt’s breath hitched in pleasure and the sound shot straight into Jaskier’s groin. Once he had much of Geralt’s back pliable, he moved up to the neck area. Geralt made a soft sound of protest, but then relaxed again as Jaskier’s fingers dug into the knots that lay across his shoulders.

From there, Jaskier worked his way down Geralt’s arms, gliding smoothly over the forearms interrupted by proud flesh, to the man’s large hands. Over the palms and pads, webbing between the fingers. Feeling bold, he slid his hands down along the length of Geralt’s body, over back and buttocks and legs, keeping contact as he changed the focus of his attention. Geralt did not protest as Jaskier removed his boots and gave the man’s feet a thorough coating of oil and rubbed, digging into every pad and hollow. By the time he had finished and replaced Geralt’s boots, he noticed that Geralt was shifting uncomfortably. “Do you want your chest rubbed?” he offered.

“No.”

Rusk chuckled. “Someone’s going to have an uncomfortable night.”

Imbriel cuffed his ear again. “Leave them alone, wolf. They are not us.”

“Nobody but us is us,” Rusk commented. He burrowed his long nose into Imbriel’s crotch.

"Never thought I'd see a wolf put his mouth in an elf's lap instead of the other way round. Hmmph," Geralt remarked irritably. He made no move to sit up.

“You should try it sometime. The scents are intoxicating. Not that you have the nose to appreciate it. And not with mine, of course,” he added “but if you cast about you should be able to turn up something to your taste.”

For a long moment Geralt was silent. Then he gave a log-suffering sigh. “Always seemed like a waste of time to me. But I suppose if a werewolf can learn to put up with that sort of thing, so can I."

“Putting up is never enough,” Rusk commented. “If you want to keep what’s yours, you’ll have to do more than that. Got all the bones and what-not mended?" he asked Imbriel in a voice that was suddenly gentle.

“I’m fine, wolf.” Imbriel gave a reassuring tug to Rusk’s ear. “In fact, I’m thinking we need to go out and patrol. You never know when an alligator is going to sneak up on us.”

Rusk reared up, nostrils flaring. “Cursed alligators,” he commented. “I’m feeling like wrestling one right now.” He reached down and pulled Imbriel to his feet. His tongue licked out, tracing the edge of the elf’s truncated ear.

Imbriel closed his eyes and turned his face up to Rusks's, trust and surrender radiating from him and Jaskier found himself spellbound at the sight. He’d never met anyone, male or female, so unselfconscious in their pure intimacy. It was almost uncomfortable, but filled him with longing at the same time. He wondered what was going through Geralt’s mind.

Sometime after they had left, Jaskier reached back out to Geralt, who had not yet moved.

The man’s eyes flew open at the touch of Jaskier’s hand, then relaxed to a half-lidded state. He didn’t exactly seem encouraging, but neither did he move away.

Has he grown used to me? Jaskier wondered. It was a start. He leaned over and, daringly, began to comb his fingers through Geralt’s hair the way Imbriel had done with Rusk, letting his fingers trail down the edge of Geralt's ear. "Are you beginning to see the appeal?" he asked softly.

"Hmmph." Geralt squirmed a bit, then settled.

I'll take that as a yes. Jaskier stared into the fire, feeling oddly content, and wondering what chords he'd select to accent the poignant verses of his next ballad, the Saga of the Wolf Tamer...


End file.
